The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister #2)

Emily smiled.

Mrs. Bhattacharya’s expression scarcely changed. “We’ll have to talk with your family about the most auspicious time to have the wedding.”

Emily’s smile spread. Anjan had told her not to worry, that if they were both respectful, they could bring her around. But maybe she hadn’t really believed it.

But then Mrs. Bhattacharya continued. “You don’t have a mother. Who is responsible for you?”

“I have a sister.” Emily grimaced. “And an uncle. But it might be better if…if…” She trailed off.

“What is she saying now?” Mrs. Bhattacharya asked, an expression of disbelief on her face.

Anjan came over and sat next to Emily. “Ma,” he said, “there may be a little difficulty with her uncle.”

“Difficulty? What kind of difficulty?”

“I’m not of age,” Emily said. “I need his permission.”

Anjan spread his hands.

“Oh.” Mrs. Bhattacharya’s jaw set. “That difficulty.” It was such a familiar expression on her face—hauntingly familiar, in fact. After a long pause, she shrugged. “I will talk to him. When your father was having those kind of difficulties with Colonel Wainworth, I handled it.”

But Anjan shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “I appreciate the offer, Ma, but this time, I think I must do it.”

Jane stood at the window, peering down into the street below. The hotel Oliver had brought them to was on a quiet street, far from the pressing crowds they’d encountered at the train station. He’d given a false name when they had signed in. He’d come up to the room, but he had paced back and forth for ten minutes before finally dashing off a handful of notes and ringing for someone to deliver them.

“My brother,” he’d said by way of explanation. “And an acquaintance, who will inquire of the bar as to the whereabouts of your sister’s…barrister.”

She didn’t ask him why he had needed to think so long before deciding to let his brother know he was in town. Or why he’d given the hotel a false name. Or why they had come here, to this quiet hotel more than a mile from the center of town. She already knew.

It wasn’t that he was ashamed of her. He just…didn’t want anyone to know of their affair. That was all.

So why did it rankle?

A few minutes back, the boy he’d sent to deliver the messages had returned, this time laden with a bag. It had been filled with paper: newspapers, copies of parliamentary minutes, notes, invitations. He’d made his excuses and retired to a desk, leaving Jane to look out the window and think her own thoughts.

If there was one thing she had learned in the months since she had met Oliver, it was that problems were best met with bold action. Every time she’d cowered and hid or made herself smaller, her problems had grown in size. This—this growing affection between them, this love affair that was impossible—was a problem.

She wanted a bold solution.

But what she was getting instead…

Watching him work through the papers was like watching him work himself away from her. With every letter he opened, every new amendment he read, he seemed more distant. More aware that the card he’d received invited him to a supper where Jane would never fit in.

Wrens, he had said, not phoenixes. She had told him once that she was ablaze, but the women who married men like Oliver wouldn’t even have dared to strike a match and light a fire.

She could do it. She could simply throw money at the problem—hire etiquette instructors who would browbeat Jane night and day until she stopped making mistakes. Hire a woman who would be wholly responsible for Jane’s uninteresting, drab, perfect little wardrobe. She had enough money to cut all her feathers and bleach them beige. With work, she could make herself fit.

But when she thought of an existence composed of lies, she shivered. Once was enough.

She shook her head and turned back to the window, back to the question of how to find a bold solution to a very quiet problem.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Who are you?”

Anjan had been let into the dim study at the back of the house. It took him a moment to focus on the man who must have been Titus Fairfield. He was rounding and bald, and he watched Anjan with a grave expression on his face.

Anjan had seen him before. Years before, another Indian student—one who had taken his degree the year Anjan had arrived—had pointed him out as a private tutor. Not one that could be used; one who was unlikely to take on an Indian pupil. If he had known that man was Emily’s uncle…

He probably wouldn’t have asked her to walk in the first place. Just as well he hadn’t known.

He’d dressed in sober colors, had made sure that he looked perfectly respectable. His collar was starched so stiffly he could feel the points against his cheek when he turned his head. He handed over a card.